"It's dangerous and it puts him at risk," Glenn nodded to Egris, sitting not far from her. He'd yet to really look at the newcomer, and he hadn't really reacted much to what was said by anyone else, save, of course, for when the mercenary mentioned partaking in a particular act with particularly buxom dark elves. Maybe he left the buxom part out and that was just Glenn's own memory acting up again, "but that hardly matters, because he's at risk anyway. He's a target, one that she could probably get on her own if she wanted. That she wants to make a game of this, however, means that he has at least a chance.

"Moreover, we've assembled quite the group here," and here he flashed a smile to Michta. "We've myself, Beclaw here, who would take an arrow for us so long as we're paying him enough (and we are paying him enough, right?)" that bit to Egris, through his teeth, before looking to her dead on. "our steel-blooded Kestrel, who is very much the Princess that Myrken deserves, Gloria, the best young mind that Jernoah has ever offered Myrken," and perhaps one of the only ones certainly, "and then the mages, Niall who has at her best has all the tenacity and temperment of a cornered bear, and she's usually far worse than that, you with your vaunted and annoying seer talents, and this fellow," a waggling point towards Castor, "who has the amazing preternatural ability to be so unnoticeable and unmemorable that he can blend into any situation like fungal moss on the backside of a tree. He's your familiar, yes, Michta? Apprentice maybe? Really? Who is he again?"

The Lady Egris Verreaux could do her own punching. Burnie's approach was usually far more passive aggressive and aggravating.

Castor grimaced at the Lady Warden's softly spoken words. "You should see how fruitful chastising him is. Don't think I didn't try. I spent the better part of an hour telling him what I thought about his 'plan',"

He neglected to add that half-elf rarely, if ever, displayed a sense of altruism. He was much more big-picture than the haphazard and risky plan suggested, but Michta had refused to answer any of his questions the night before, calmly penning notes into the small leather book that was always on his person and effectively ignoring the captain. When the swordsman had finished divulging his opinions, the seer had quietly asked him to make sure that his men were ready for anything the following day.

"He fancies himself a master tactician, I think. Granted, the power to see the many outcomes of conflicts is a boon. But still." The swordsman looked put out. "He's far too stubborn for his own good. Let's just hope that our sorceress here can help keep him in one piece." He trailed off in a way that suggested there was more on his mind than he was saying.

And then, of course, Glenn spoke up.

Castor's eyes widened in affront over the undeserved jabs tossed casually in his direction. Mictha was duly unimpressed with the words, the extent of his reaction manifesting as a slightly raised eyebrow. While the swordsman's jaw visibly clenched, the half-elf turned his attention momentarily away from Niall in order to throw water on the fire that was almost certainly about to consume a part of their merry troupe.

"A familiar tends to exhibit one's traits in some way, a sort of shared semblance, I suppose. The captain and I are hardly alike." He left it at that, thinking (perhaps not incorrectly) that a magic lesson would only serve to nettle Glenn further. He decided to simply give the man what he had asked for and sally forth, undaunted. He wasn't sure what the best strategy was when it came to dealing with a man like the former governor, as such an individual would be looked down upon or even removed in Mixalydia's courts. He was again reminded of how far from home he really was.

"Who is he, then?" Castor huffed, still recovering from being blindsided.

"He is Glenn Burnie. The former governor of Myrken."

"I thought you said that our dealings were with Lady Egris, not officials." The swordsman glanced at the Lady Warden, uncertain of what had developed when he wasn't looking.

And like sweet, amber honey spread across toast as black as coal, Michta replied in a smooth tone without missing a beat: "Why, I believe it was she who invited him into our dealings. Her judgment thus far has proven sound, so I never inquired after it." It was not acidic, exactly, but his opinion was just barely veiled by the curtain of his light manner.

He turned his visible eye towards Glenn, then. "Captain Montelle is the leader of a task force in service to his majesty, Branson. As I explained before, the Hidden Hand is much like the Bloodletters in terms of status throughout our realm, though perhaps with less autonomy. They are soldiers, through and through."

Turning once more to Niall, his gaze swept across the symbols snaking their way across her flesh. When he spoke, it was with a subdued sense of wonder. He sounded like a scholar now more than ever.

"I will be the first to admit that I was not expecting this. The art of runecraft vanished from our kingdom nearly two hundred years ago and is considered a lost form of magic in our homeland. Many of the mages and scholars at the time felt that such primal methods of casting left something to be desired. As I have never born witness to the powers of a runist, as your kind are often referred to in the books that span the subject, I have yet to formulate an opinion on the matter. I understand that the fundamentals of casting are similar for the both of us, but the workings themselves are--"

He became aware of Castor staring flatly at him from across the table, a warning that he was droning on as he had a habit of doing whenever the study of magic presented itself. Michta pretended not to notice, although his cheeks colored ever so slightly.

"Yes, well. I hope that we might discuss such things at leisure once our business is concluded, and the threat has been dealt with. In the meantime, I will say that I trust you and your magic. Please, do as you see fit."

Castor piped up, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his breast pocket. "About that. I encountered Crucia's lapdogs on my walk, the skinny man with the gauntlet and the little girl--"

"Selwyn and Vennette." the half-elf supplied, quietly, glancing at Glenn. He decided not to mention that he was aware that the man had encountered those particular member of the Bloodletters already, and their powers. The former governor didn't seem keen on the abilities of a seer.

"Right. They cornered me in the street and gave this to me. They've chosen an abandoned farmhouse North of town for the swap. They want to do it tonight."

Michta stared at him, as if waiting. Presently: "And you didn't inform us of this the moment you walked through that door because...?"

There was an awkward beat of silence, in which the swordsman's gaze flicked between the Lady Warden at his side to the ever-unimpressed half-elf.

"Really, you're far better off ignoring him if you aren't going to slit his throat." The sorceress murmured, leaning back in her chair and continuing to -not- look at Burnie.

Apart from that single comment, Niall remained silent, watching everyone other than the former governor and the seamstress until Michta spoke to her again. Even then, she stayed quiet, as the half-elf seemed like to devolve into a speech which was doubtless of no interest to anyone other than himself and possibly Niall. He finished and, still on her best behavior, the scarred young woman inclined her head towards him.

"Yes, such discussions would be best at another time."

His assurances of trust were met with a simple flick of her fingers, gloved again, in acknowledgement. That was well enough, since it seemed as though things might start moving very quickly.

"I knew a man in 'eath who 'ad a right knack fer makin' things invisible," replies Serrus to the Seamstress casually with a waver of his hand, shifting in his lax, carefree slouch. Dark eyes would regard her for a moment, and and eyebrow quirks upward, turning to her askance. "Is is just me, or does every bloody man with steel in this town carry a letter-opener?"

The final comment regards the rapiers so commonly seen, with long and thin wasp like blades with elaborate and pompous basket hilts, a far cry from the longknife she carried, and an even further cry from the great cutter of a kriegsmesser that was hitched to his belt, unsheathed, like a caged steel tooth of a metal dragon ready to leap out and break open flesh. Not that he doubted others prowess with the weapon, it was gaining much favour over the longsword blades such as his, as much as he did not like them, they were a common sight in Myrken. Nor does he suspect one such as Gloria Wynsee would be knowledgeable in the schooling of fencing and swordsmanship, but she is one of the nearest to where he sits, after all.

Belcaw here, who would take an arrow for us so long as we're paying him enough.

That comment does have Serrus turning to regard Glenn, to which he offers a nod and tug of his forelock with a wry smile behind dark eyes, eyes that hold a devil's gleam behind the fierce long hair and stubble upon his chin that is once again quickly growing back into something fierce, since shaving is not a common pastime of his. But he appreciates the words and presumptions, a man who enjoys simply telling things as they are, because that is something that Belcaw is renown to make an art form out of, when he isn't conveying his inelegant wit or banal humour.

The conversation moves on, words and more words, and the mage sitting beside the swordsman prattles on needlessly about his magic to the notably less-wordy witch, a long-winded elaboration to which the sellsword makes no effort to hide a loud, impertinent yawn, sounded through a set of worn teeth. A glance upward, and the cad finds himself idly looking about for something to drink. Preferably something in a rather large stein or mug, or an equally tall glass.

They've chosen an abandoned farmhouse North of town for the swap. They want to do it tonight.

Amid the sea of conversation that passes back and forth across the table, the exchange of the notice from Castor to Michta was what most draws her splintered attention. Serrus tugs at the comma of hair that hangs across his brow; she, simultaneously, tucks escaping sprawls of black underneath the seam that separates her sweaty from her ragged bonnet. Her stomach dances and tangles itself in knots. A swap. Michta for Jig, for Bern. The girl's flat lips crush against one another so firmly that their colors fade. A stiff nod is all she gives to the sorcerer, a silent agreement that their plan was still valid.

Only after she realizes that her greasy palm, perspiring with a fresh layer of tarsweat, has been kneading and squeezing at the same wrinkled spot on the kirtle of her discolored skirts, she leans close to Serrus. "This place stifles," she confides. "I'm scarcely welcome in this conversation--" and her gaze falls on Niall, "--and my part is simple: I do as I'm told, and -- and I'll do as they do."

They would gather her when they were ready--

--and Castor, suddenly, perhaps prematurely, is the target of her eyes' piercing ire.

"You forgot," she states; no, clarifies, and then sweeps for the door of the Floating Dragon.

Outside on the age-warped porch, she shuffles through her satchel for the vehicle of a long-forgotten vice: a clay pipe. She wedges it in the pit of her crippled arm and gags the mouth of the bowl with a pinch of coltsfoot. A man with a patch over his eye and a horn-mug in his hand -- Mort or Glort or Bort he'd said was his name, something like that -- sidles near, but she ignores him. Regardless, he lights her with a glowing coal from his own pipe. "Obliged," the girl says. On the muddy street, women with rustling skirts and men with grimy knuckles converse and deal and laugh and bicker.

As tendrils of smoke lazily drift up from the gaps between her teeth, she searches for glimpses of red-dyed leather.

"Crucia does not play nice, we all know that. She has little emotions with regard to anyone," she added, softly, to Castor. "She could end him effortlessly as soon as he is handed over to her. Surely there is something else we can do to protect him. More than magic alone."

She had hoped not to be overheard, but Glenn spoke up with the mistaken impression that he was part of the conversation. As he always did. Her lips pressed together with restrained irritation. Her stare was pointed and she glowered at the former Governor, her boot aimed in sharp kick to his shin. Luckily for her, he had seated himself at close proximity.

Castor's sullen conversation with Mitcha made the woman heave a sigh. "I am official, Captain. Glenn Burnie has been in Myrken for quite some time. Regrettably, that has made him vaguely useful upon occasion. We cannot afford to turn away any assistance in our fight against the Bloodletters. No matter how boorish they might be," she remarked, her voice low and disapproving. She finished her drink in a few quick swallows and leaned back in her chair, her mood soured.

At Castor's revelation, she turned her eyes to the two mages. "You'll need time to prepare. You've little time to do so. Upstairs." She jerked her chin towards the stairs.

"Belcaw, how is your scouting? We've a location and I don't want to face an ambush."

She let her eyes ghost over those gathered.

"Shall we meet back here in three hours? Time to gather armor, weapons, and wits."

Belcaw has been busy looking for drink with all the ramble of talk between the well spoken mages and nobles, so much that Egris' query doesn't register for a few heartbeats. When it does, he glances her way, all blase about the whole thing.

"Never was much one for all that cloak an' dagger stuff, your Ladyship. Bein' that as it may, I still got me 'orse if you need a rider to look ahead, could keep m'self all discrete 'bout it, as like."

He never considered himself to be particularly stealthy or sneaky, even though he seems to fit the sterotype of a backalley cutthorat rather nicely. That said, he knew his way about a saddle well, and a horse and rider could move fat, after all.